River124 (1)

Listen.
Today, my mother almost died.
My mother, who’s presently entering a living room somewhere in New England, and who’s presently “an armful,” almost died.

There.
I’ve done it.

I’ve repeated the words that so many postmodernists wish to repeat. Repeat, that is, within the context of their own subsequent “masterpieces.” Well, I can’t worry about whether this is gonna be completely postmodern, nor whether it’s gonna be a masterpiece. I can only worry about when I’m gonna get it out, which is now.

Now. Now is the time when this story should be told. This story should be told now. But I warn you:

This is not a time-deleniated story about a war hero.
This is not an Existential exercise.
Nor is it an attempt to adapt the family drama of the playwright whose name my father just happens to bear into a contemporary format.

Well, if truth be told, then I guess it would most closely be linked to the last item listed in the list above. But that’s the end of the precocious postmodernism. I promise. (For now.)